Morning comes without an answer.
That’s the first thing I register when I wake up—not the light spilling through floor-to-ceiling glass, not the distant hush of traffic far below, but the absence left behind by last night. I asked Aiden a question I shouldn’t have asked unless I was prepared to live with whatever followed.
Did you really regret it? Regret me?
He didn’t answer. There was practically a cartoon puff of dust behind him as he fled to his room.
Okay, that’s not fair, but it felt that way last night.
I stare up at a ceiling that feels too high, too clean, too unfamiliar. The penthouse bedroom smells faintly like citrus cleaner and something darker underneath, something that’s unmistakably him. The city stretches beyond the windows in silent geometry, all steel and glass and distance. It’s beautiful. It’s impersonal. It reminds me, again, that this is not my space.
We are guests here. This is not our home, no matter how much Aiden feels like home. It’s messed up to think of him that way, and I know it. But from the moment I met him… it doesn’t matter.
I turn my head and find my son sprawled sideways across the bed, hair sticking up, mouth open just slightly as he breathes. He’s safe. He’s asleep. That’s the only reason I let myself stay quiet last night. The only reason I let Aiden walk away down a hallway lined with doors I didn’t belong to.
The conversation was brutal, but if we had woken Mason up with our arguing, I would have felt worse.
I slip out of bed carefully and tug the shirt I slept in closer around me. Aiden’s penthouse is silent in that suspended way tall buildings get before the city fully wakes. No neighbors. No birds. Just the faint hum of distant movement far below and the soft hush of the ventilation system that most people can ignore. When things are quiet, background noise is deafening. It’s part of why I love my bar—it’s never quiet.
I turn on the faucet while I do my business. The noise is comforting. I’ve never liked the quiet. Not really. People think it’s peaceful, but that’s never clicked for me. When it’s quiet, I can’t shut out the thoughts I usually ignore, and right now, those thoughts are unkind.
What if the fire had escalated faster?
What if Mason hadn’t gotten out in time?
What if Aiden hadn’t told me I was a mistake six years ago?
I finish up, wash my hands, and when I turn off the faucet, in comes the quiet to eat me alive. I pad toward the open living space, listening for Mason’s usual soundtrack—singing, narrating, asking questions that begin before his eyes are fully open.
Nothing. Just more devouring quiet?—
A sharp clatter echoes from the kitchen area. Plastic on stone. Followed by a small, panicked inhale.
“Oh no.”
My body reacts before my brain does.
“Mom!” Mason yells. “It’s okay!”
That sentence has never once meant what he thinks it means.
I hurry toward the kitchen, heart already racing, the smell reaching me before the sight does—sweet, warm, unmistakable. Pancakes. I slow at the edge of the open-plan space, bracing myself.
Aiden’s kitchen is all sleek lines and stainless steel and marble counters. Or it was. Now it looks like a fry cook’s crime scene. Flour dusts the island and the floor in uneven drifts. Batter freckles the backsplash in pale splats. A jug of milk lies on its side, slowly creeping across stone tile that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Mason stands on a chair, curls powdered white, gripping a whisk like a sword. “I was making hero pancakes,” he announces proudly. “But the batter attacked me.”
And then I see Aiden. Shirtless. Barefoot. Entirely unbothered.
He’s crouched on the floor, calmly wiping up a spilled milk on the other side of the kitchen. He looks up and catches my stare. “Morning.”
Part of me wants to kick him while he’s down there, and part of me wants to hug him for not shouting at Mason or his mess.
Aiden turns back to the milk, methodical, unhurried. He presses paper towels down with his palm, moving like he has nowhere else he needs to be.
Most people tense when Mason gets like this. They smile through it, white-knuckled, already calculating cleanup time and patience thresholds. Aiden doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t even glance at the clock.
Mason hops down from the chair and nearly slips, catching himself on the edge of the island. “I told you the batter was sneaky.”
